


A Real Emergency

by niennavalier



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 14:37:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1782541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niennavalier/pseuds/niennavalier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock decides to surprise John on his birthday and calls Lestrade over for help. Of course, things don't end up quite as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Real Emergency

**Author's Note:**

> Set between the Sign of Three and His Last Vow.

                “Graham—“

                “Greg,” the Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard corrected irritably from his place in the Baker Street flat’s living room.

                “Greg,” the deep, resonating voice from the kitchen conceded after a few moments, “the flour.”

                “What about it?”

                “Get it for me.”

                “Why should I?”

                “I don’t know where it is.”

                “And you think I do? You’re the bloody genius; look for it yourself.” No response came as said genius resorted to checking through the nearly empty cabinets. Greg Lestrade sighed, one hand rubbing his temple to fend off the headache he was certain was on its way, the other reaching for the mobile in his pocket. He honestly had no clue as to why he was here at all, and the earlier text which had summoned him didn’t clear anything up either.

                “PLEASE HELP. BAKER STREET NOW.  – SH”

                Of course Greg had responded, doing as told in case this was one of the few times when Sherlock actually did need him. And this time, it was just a good thing he hadn’t brought in back up. In all seriousness, the man had no clue what a real emergency was. He would gladly go chasing after serial killers or risk his life and think absolutely nothing of it. But writing a best man’s speech or learning how to bake pastries for his best friend’s birthday? Then the world might as well end.

                “Gavin—“

                “Oh for God’s sake, Sherlock! How hard is it to remember my name?” Greg rose to his feet, more than a little annoyed with the consulting detective, and stormed into the kitchen. Or, at least tried to storm in at first, soon slowing down at the sight of precariously balanced chemistry equipment, all filled with bubbling, most likely hazardous, substances, alongside the bags of various dismembered body parts, none of which he’d taken care to notice earlier, being slightly preoccupied with other thoughts at the time. Knowing Sherlock for years refrained Greg from posing any questions, aware that the answers would not exactly be pleasant. So instead, he masked the exasperation with civility, asking what the younger man wanted to hear. “What do you need now?”

                “What was I to do next?”

                “Weren’t you reading the directions when I came in?” Yes, he clearly remembered entering the flat to find bright eyes trained on the laptop, skimming over recipes at impossible speeds.

                “I was, but I do have to delete some things.”

                “Like my name.”

                A pause. “Perhaps.”

                Greg leaned back against the wall opposite Sherlock as the full brunt of the headache began to set in. “You’d better give me one good reason why I shouldn’t walk out this door right now, Sherlock,” he warned, for once missing the quiet of his empty flat.

                “Because this isn’t for me, Inspector; it’s for John.” The words indeed caught Greg’s attention as it was unlike the so-called “high-functioning sociopath” to express concern for anyone aside from himself. It was just a reminder of how much the good doctor had changed the man, humanized him, even.

                Or, at least turned Sherlock Holmes into a slightly smaller pain in the arse.

                “Fine,” he eventually acquiesced, “but I’m only doing this because of John, not for you.”

                “Of course,” the other man responded with the arrogance only he could muster, “that _is_ what I said.”

                Greg craned back his head, already regretting his decision. This would be a long day.

 

                When the little used oven finally slammed shut, DI Lestrade was quite glad to hear the sound, to say the least. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure if he could stand any more of Sherlock going on about how the batter-to-yeast-to-blueberry ratio was all off before proceeding to calculate it himself. Greg hadn’t bothered looking over Sherlock’s work, being all too aware of the man’s brilliance and, frankly, not wanting to take part in this endeavor any longer.

                So why in the world he was now sitting in John’s chair and playing Cluedo with Sherlock Holmes was beyond his imagination.

                “What do you mean? The victim wouldn’t have killed himself!”

                “Not alone. He would have hired the maid to hide the evidence and pant it on someone else.”

                “There is no maid!”

                “It’s a mansion; of course there’s a maid!”

                “But, Sherlock, that’s not how it would’ve happened!”

                “And why not?”

                “Because it’s a bloody board game!” Really, it was at times like this when he wondered how John put up with the man.

                “Sherlock?” To speak of the devil. “Is someone else here?” In walked Dr. John Watson, dressed casually after spending a night out with Mary, eyes roaming the flat before settling on the other two. “Oh, Greg, hey,” he greeted kindly, though the slightly startled look never entirely left his face as the older man rose to shake his hand. “What are you doing here?”

                Greg made ready to answer, sorting out how to explain the fairly ridiculous situation, before Sherlock interrupted. “Assisting me, obviously.”

                “With what, exactly?” John asked, his expression now a mixture of amusement and worry.

                “Oh, it’s your birthday, John, what fun is there in telling you –“

                “Sherlock.” It was Greg this time, dark brown eyes intent elsewhere rather than on the best friends’ banter. “Do you know how yeast works?”

                “Obviously,” the younger man replied haughtily. “The chemistry of it is quite simple. Yeast is a single-celled micro-organism which, through the process of fermentation, uses carbohydrates to produce carbon dioxide gas.”

                “Yeah, but have you ever used it?”

                “No. Why is this relevant, Lestrade?”

                “Because you should take a look in the kitchen.” Greg ignored the refusal to address him by his first name for now, distracted by the almost comical mess. Steaming hot batter had streamed through the sides of the oven door, dripping and oozing sluggishly to the floor as the appliance itself appeared to be bursting at the seams. And Sherlock, having risen to his feet, was evidently not pleased.

                “What?! No!” he shouted, racing into the other room.

                “Um, what’s happening?” John inquired, lost as to why his friend was fuming in front of an exploding oven.

                “Seems someone’s not so brilliant after all,” Greg answered amusedly as the self-proclaimed “proper genius” stalked through the tiny room, unsure of what to do for once.

                “Oh, shut up,” he commanded, then turned back to the problem at hand. “Why did this happen? I only fixed the recipe…”

                “I don’t think that’s what you did. Looks to me like you’re ignorant about more things than just the earth going round the sun,” Greg offered sardonically, to which Sherlock turned, ready with a sharp retort.

                “How about we all just get some takeaway?” John, quick as ever, attempted to mitigate the imminent argument. Fortunately, knowing it was the man’s birthday, Sherlock bit back his insults and complied with the suggestion as Greg couldn’t help but smirk.

                After all, he’d got the last word in a conversation with Sherlock Holmes. Maybe it wasn’t such a waste of a day after all.


End file.
